A Very Holmes Christmas
by Theodora Helena Miller
Summary: John is dragged along to meet the Holmes clan for one of the infamous Christmas dinners, and in the process begins to learn surprising things about his friend. T for innuendo, cussing, and my own paranoia.
1. Chapter 1

"Merry Christmas," I said as I swept into the room. My flatmate was lying on the couch, fingertips pressed together as he watched the ceiling.

"If you say so," Sherlock grumbled, "I don't really see the merriment."

"What's wrong now?"

He still didn't move. "Look at the phone."

"Where—really, please tell me it isn't in your coat pocket."

"Where else would it be? Just get it. I'm thinking."

I sighed and shoved his hands aside roughly—_screw his thinking process!_—and yanked the coat away from his chest, more to find out what the hell had him in such a bad mood than to oblige his wishes. A smirk broke through the mask as I rooted around in his inner pockets angrily.

"Come to Christmas Dinner or I'll pull your access grant to the morgue. MH.

"Well, it appears your brother is not above blackmail. But I guess we knew that already—at least you won't be alone for Christmas."

I tried not to sound too bitter—Harry _had_ asked me to come out with her, but that meant drinking, and being a designated driver on Christmas held no appeal for me.

He sat straight up, grinning. "You're a genius. Figuratively, of course."

"You were doing so well. Am I being the—what was it?—conductor of light again?"

"Precisely. You're not taking your sister up on her offer judging by your left hand, which leaves you free to come with me."

"My left—oh, never mind. I'm not coming with you. It's a family event."

"Oh, I'm sure my siblings will be bringing people."

"Siblings? As in, _plural_?"

"Yes, yes, of course. My psychology should've made it evident. I have one sister and four brothers."

"What do they do?"

"Two of them are still at uni, and Brinley's unemployed. Rosabel is a criminal psychologist working at a mental health institute for the criminally insane. Then there's Mycroft, who you know all about of course."

"You have five siblings and you never mentioned any of them to me?"

"You never asked."

I punched him.

"Ow! What on earth was that for?"

"Just be lucky I didn't throttle you." I said, before storming off in a huff to research Rosabel and Brinley Holmes.

I stumbled across Rosabel first. She'd been married for a year and a half, now with the surname Stalon, and currently had a daughter named Winifred. Brinley was a nonentity—all I found was a birth announcement in some newspaper from thirty years previously saying that Emery and Marybeth Holmes had had a son named Brinley Winston Holmes. There were also Stratton and Amesbury Holmes's birth announcements.

I went back further in the newspaper until I got to the wedding announcement. Marybeth Rosecroft was his mother's maiden name, an heiress to some wealthy family.

_Just how rich _are_ the Holmes'?_ Emery Holmes was a businessman already rolling in self-earned money before he married a girl with more inherited wealth than some aristocrats.

I found the net worth sum and stared at it. No wonder the five digit incentive offered by Sebastian had been a trifle to Sherlock. No wonder he could afford to replace the wall every month or so. No wonder he wasn't fazed by royalty. He could probably buy Buckingham palace, for God's sake.

"I presume the look of shock is based upon finding out just how much many the Holmes family has to its name. Don't worry, only Brinley and Stratton will rub it in your face and Mycroft will keep them civil. He controls the accounts."

"What about your mother?"

"Mummy was deemed mentally unfit when I was twelve."

"I—I'm sorry. That must've been hard."

"Why would it have been hard? She was unfit, it was for the best."

I got the impression that this was another one of Mycroft's little mantras. I could hear it in his voice whenever he quoted his brother, the bitterness of a child's broken heart.

"If you want to talk about it…"

"It was ages ago, I barely remember it."

"Did you delete it?"

"Yes," He said stiffly, before walking away.

I sighed and pulled out my phone to tell Harry my new alibi for Christmas.

_Can't go out with you. Sherlock's dragging me to the family Christmas dinner. –John_

_Meeting the family! How cute. When can we expect the wedding invites?_

I groaned. If my sister was going to take it _that_ way, there was no telling how the Yarders would react. Actually, I knew exactly how they'd react…


	2. Chapter 2

I posted the news on the blog the next day.

_Poor bastard._ Lestrade commented

Donovan kept it simple. _Freaks._

"You're being dragged to a Holmes Christmas? I don't envy you." Lestrade said at their last crime scene before they left, grinning. "Just maybe you shouldn't tell that Molly girl, because she certainly _will_ envy you. The poor love-struck fool. I don't want to scrape you off the pavement."

"So they're initiating you into the freak clan?"

"Sergeant Donovan, that's enough." Lestrade said sternly.

"Look, you're normal now, but the longer you hang about the Holmes family the more like them you become."

"Sounds like the voice of experience. Oh my—did Holmes _turn you down_?"

"Why would I ask that _freak_ out?" She demanded.

Sherlock approached with hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the ceiling of the crime scene and completely avoiding looking at her. "Oh, I don't know, at the time you claimed to be in love with me."

"Leave her alone." Anderson interrupted angrily.

"That's quite alright, we'll be leaving now anyway." Sherlock said apathetically. "Fascinating case, thank you Lestrade, it was a wonderful send-off."

"Who did it?"

"No-one. She committed suicide and made it look like murder made to appear as suicide to make sure her sister got her life insurance, but also framed her ex-husband as revenge, probably because he took advantage of her sister. I think you'll find her sister in possession of the _real_ suicide note, probably a letter judging by how traditional the family is."

Anderson snorted. "Ridiculous."

"You certainly throw that word around a lot." Sherlock replied coolly. "The sister feels terribly guilty, and I'm guessing she'll confess if you mention that she can be charged and that the husband has an airtight alibi."

"Brilliant." Lestrade said, breaking down and grinning.

"Mr. Holmes, I have your ride waiting for you." A quiet female voice said.

I glanced up to see a pretty young girl with prominent cheekbones and dark hair pulled back elegantly.

"Mrs. Stalon." He replied, just as professional as her even as a smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

A wicked grin spread across her face and she ran to hug him. He lifted her feet off the ground and spun her in a circle. "Shirley! You agreed! I ordered Mikey to blackmail you, but I wasn't sure he'd succeed.

"I can't wait for you to come back, and don't worry—I kept your room exactly as you left it and repainted the guest room to accommodate John. I doubted the sunny yellow would suit his tastes. Winifred was an absolute nightmare to bathe after I let her paint." She stepped back and surveyed her brother, lips pursing as she caught sight of the small red mark on his jaw where I'd punched him and eyes narrowing as she took in what I only assumed were tiny details telling her that he hadn't eaten anything for twenty-two hours and hadn't slept in seventeen.

"Wow, she almost sounds normal once you disregard that she's a raging sociopath." Anderson muttered.

"_Still_ bitter about being hit by a girl in front of all of Scotland Yard? I told you to shut up, but you _just wouldn't listen_."

"Ah, yes, let's not have a repeat of all that," Lestrade said, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding the three of us over to the car, "It was hard enough getting the charges dropped the first time."

"How are things with the wife, anyway?"

He sighed, drawing a hand across his chin. "Not very well."

"Sorry to hear it. Out of curiosity, is there a large amount of yellow in your house?"

"It's my daughter's favourite colour, so it's on every other surface."

"Repaint. It causes fights. Now, I have no idea which colour causes infidelity, but I think she feels you care more about your job than for her. Take time off work spontaneously and whisk her off to a nice restaurant. Bring her flowers, pink and purple, with rounded petals.

"And Anderson, your wife is cheating on you too, so feel free to divorce her quietly and move on with Donovan, you've got a certain chemistry even if you _are_ a closet homosexual."

I was torn between sympathy for them (despite my resentment of their attitudes), wonderment at how this ability appeared to be genetic, curiosity as to how she worked all that out, and exasperation at their lack of care for how that would affect Anderson and the Yarders as we climbed into the sleek black car and Rosabel instructed the chauffeur to leave.

Sherlock looked out the window as I watched London streetlights flicker across his sister's face.

"You don't approve of my bluntness, Dr. Watson, and you have questions. Disregarding my apathy, go ahead and ask."

"Can all of your family do this?"

Sherlock uttered a little half-laugh.

"He thinks that we—meaning myself, Mikey, and him—are all using completely different methods. But if we go along with the assumption—yes, Shirley, I know you think that it's erroneous—that it's the same talent, then no, just the three of us."

"Is Mikey… Mycroft?"

"Yes." She threw her head back and laughed. "He hates it. Shirley's used to it, and besides, he's not too uptight to respond with Rosie, which Mikey is. Will might shoot you if you call me Rose, Rosie, or pronounce my actual name like the flower; it's a family thing."

"Will being…?"

"Her husband, of course." Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, of course."

"Sarcasm." Rosabel assessed. "Shirley, you've offended him."

He frowned across me at her. "He's always offended by something I've said."

"_Sherlock_, I will have Mrs. Hudson confiscate your skull unless you apologise."

"You wouldn't!"

She tapped a few keys on the cell phone. "Mrs. Hudson! Hello, how are you tonight? Good to hear it. Listen, I'm worried about my brother. There's a recent psychological study that suggests it's dangerous to keep a skull around the house, it might be responsible for his mood swings. And the bone dust! It could be why he's stopped eating… Oh, would you? That'd be wonderful. I'll tell you when I determine whether it's safe to return it. Listen, I have to go, John's here and I want to talk to him about keeping Sherlock safe.

"Yes, have a wonderful night. Merry Christmas."

She hung up and smiled radiantly. "Want it back? Apologise."

"'m s'ry."

"Speak up!"

"I'm sorry, John."

"It's fine."

"See?" Sherlock said, giving his sister a _look_ past me.

She folded her arms. "I'll tell Mummy next time you treat your friend like an idiot."

"He's been doing pretty well, actually. First he apologised to Molly over the present debacle, and then he apologised for saying we weren't friends during the Baskerville case."

"So I heard. I also heard he locked you in a room and terrified you to the point of locking yourself in a cage."

I still wasn't too happy about that, but… "He made a mistake right after that, so it balances out."

"One mistake. It won't happen again." Sherlock sulked, looking out the window.

Rosabel looked between the two of us for a moment—was that the musings of a psychologist over a relationship? I hoped not—and then rolled up the window barrier between us and chauffeur. "Okay," She said, swivelling the seat around (they moved, apparently) in the roomy interior and pulling out a notebook.

"I do a lot of couple's counselling for friends; surely this can't be much different…"

**Thanks to everyone who's added me to Favourites/Alert! It's like a silent nod of approval. Not a single review, though. O.O**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay. I am recovering from the Season 2 finale, so bear with me *sobs*. Nevertheless, the fic goes on. And onward going!**

**Oh, and if I bash Mycroft later on, you know why.**

**X-x-X-x-X**

**Rosabel's POV (mostly because typing her name out is so damn weird, in the story for which I chose this name originally, it's 99% her POV)**

"We are _not_ a couple." John protested.

"I think thou doth protest too much." I smirked. "Anyway, I don't doubt that. What I doubt is this thing you two keep doing, when you pretend not to care about the other or what they think of you. It's bull shit, respectfully."

"Maybe I do care." Sherlock muttered.

I glared and replied with a bit more force than necessary, "Act like it, then!"

They looked at me in surprise and I realised I'd treated them like I treated the whinging criminals at work who were always on about, "Oh, I've reformed, I have! Honest!" I took a breath and smiled reassuringly.

John shifted uncomfortably, waiting for me to speak.

"Righty-ho. John, tell me what made you decide to stay with Sherlock."

"I don't limp around him. I think Mycroft said something about showing me the war in the shadows of London, how I missed the war and all. And he gave me something to blog about. And I have fun, even though I've been kidnapped more times than I like to admit."

"Sherlock?"

"Well, he hasn't left yet and his blundering mistakes help me see the truth, and he's better than the skull sometimes. He can carry the webcam when cases don't interest me. And he helps me pay for rent."

"You could afford rent on your own, Shirley. And John, you could work with anyone—lots of easier people to get in danger with. But you don't, because you're friends and you genuinely like each other. Now, let's talk about your problems with each other."

"Ooh, I'll go first. He shoots the wall, never pays attention to me, puts me in danger, rarely thanks me, and insults me regularly."

"All valid points. Sherlock, your objections to John?"

He looked more nervous than he had when Dad told us oldest three to come into the study when he was six and I was five. It was the last time he showed real emotion until John showed up. "I don't have any." He said, barely audible and jaw set as he looked out the window.

_Ha! The plot thickens. _It was so, so good to finally work with something fun. I was so damn sick of boring psychopathic murderers. That's precisely why I brought Shirley home; I needed intrigue, and John and Shirley's relationship was certainly that.

"Okay. Good progress. Thoughts, John."

"I don't know what to say…"

"Try thank you." I said, despite Sherlock's cringe.

"Erm, thanks, Sherlock."

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock asked tiredly. "Or would you like us to talk about feelings?"

"Don't tempt me. After all, you both feel guilty for keeping secrets about Irene Adler's fate for very different reasons. John, is there anything you'd like to tell Sherlock?"

Both of them glared at me. The look on John's face told me he wanted to demand just what the hell I was playing at (it amused me that he thought Shirley was so fragile, that he had no idea that Irene dying—had she actually died—wouldn't even make the top ten worst things to happen to him), and Shirley was reminding me that I had promised not to mention the private plane tickets I gotten for him to go to the Middle East and save Irene.

Shirley's eyebrows twitched together as he glanced at John. He seemed confused, as if he hadn't considered that John was feeling guilty about Irene, and John (for someone who held my brother in such high regard and expected so much emotion from him, he often underestimated my brother's ability to tell when he was lying blatantly or helping people he cared for survive) gave him an equally confused look.

"Mycroft came to me… and told me… Well, he wanted to know if you'd prefer Irene dead or in witness protection. I didn't want to hurt you, so I lied."

"I know she's not in witness protection; you really are a terrible liar."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, she's dead…"

He looked down, and John hung his head, apparently thinking Shirley was choked up by the "unexpected" news. I tried not to laugh, hiding behind a curtain of hair.

"Well…" Shirley said slowly. "According to Mycroft's official records, yes."

"'It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me.' Even Mikey's subconscious knows it." I said, chuckling. I'd rather enjoyed hearing about that conversation. Mikey had quoted it word for word to my utterly impassive poker face while I'd wrestled with laugher at the irony.

John's jaw clenched. _It appears he's a bit annoyed with me…_

"If you weren't a girl, I would punch you." He said mildly.

Shirley shifted, and John turned the gaze on my brother.

"_You._"

He practically rugby tackled him, trying to wrap his hands around Shirley's neck. "You let me feel horrible about keeping it from you for _months_! MONTHS, Sherlock!"

"Ahem." Avery interrupted, having rolled the barrier down. A smirk spread across my face. "We're here, Mrs. Stalon."

My smirk widened as I glanced at the boys again. "Thank you, Avery." I added as the garage staff opened the sleek black doors.

Sherlock climbed out right behind me, straightening his coat and turning up his collar carefully. "I really wish you'd stop attacking me. We both know you won't kill me."

"I wouldn't be so sure." The doctor said through gritted teeth.

"Hippocratic Oath." I reminded him cheerfully. It had caused a few problems in my own life, so I knew far too well its implications. I did marry an assassin, after all, and there had been a sticky incident on the honeymoon where I was oh-so-close to breaking my promise (they made me take the oath when I was a practicing doctor—that had been before bullet wounds began to bore me). Only Will stopped me, placing a warm hand on my back and rubbing it.

"You're here!" My daughter interrupted. "With Uncle Shirley?"

"The one and only." I replied, bending down to pick her up and put her on my hip. She was so tiny still, even at the age of two and a half, and even with her perfect diction.

Sherlock smiled blandly at Winifred as she reached for him. Why was it that he clearly cared more for John than for his own flesh and blood? It was decidedly frustrating.

"This is the maid, Samantha; she'll show you to your room, Dr. Watson." I said. "Oh Samantha, thanks for watching Winifred."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Stalon."

Winifred tugged on my sleeve. "We went riding with Uncle Stratton, and he said—"

I groaned as the innuendo ridden comment was quoted by my _two year old_. "Did he? I'm going to have a talk with your Uncle Stratton…"

**Everyone has uncles like that, right? The ones that, when you grow up, you go "oh my God, I can't believe he SAID that in front of a seven year old!"**

**Anyhoo, crappy ending, but this is approaching "too long for one chapter" so I'm going forward.**


End file.
